The Russian Poet
by CheekyAmerican
Summary: A lonely Russian poet attends Durmstrang. This is written for Round 11 of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition.


**Author's Note:** I am Chaser #2 for the Falmouth Falcons. This is written for Round 11 of the QLFC. My prompt is:

1089 words

Begin and end with the same word

Involving the spell Obscuro.

Include Quote: 'I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.'

Set in Durmstrang

Scene break: **###**

The Russian Poet

"Russian is the language of emotion, but most especially tragedy," Professor Turgenev said. "I can see that you have the soul of a Russian poet. I know, for it was a broken heart that killed me. The grief was so strong, it pinned me to the earth in this ghostly form, condemned to haunt this castle until the stone turns to dust."

Mislav Zima had heard the professor make this claim many times before, and Mislav felt he understood it quite well. Loneliness had been Mislav Zima's companion at Durmstrang. He was in his sixth year and could count on one hand the number of boys he was friendly with.

Professor Nicolas Turgenev taught Medieval Literature, an elective that few students chose. The other professors had originally objected to anyone teaching a class that was so suffused with Muggle Literature. In the end, Turgenev had been allowed to offer it as an independent study. Having a student or two taking up his time was better than having him floating around the castle day and night. When bored, the ghost tended to interrupt classes and pester teachers in the faculty lounge or, even worse, in a teacher's own room at night.

Mislav was studying with Professor Turgenev for the afternoon in an old outbuilding located in the shadow of the castle. They were never disturbed, not even by the other ghosts, who claimed that the unheated barns and sheds were too cold even for them. Fires were only lit in Durmstrang for magical purposes, leaving the entire castle a cold and icy retreat from the world. Mislav was not about to divulge the secret that his friend Drago Kasun had shared with him, the magic that provided portable warmth without the telltale signs of smoke from a fire. Studying in the old barn was now the most comfortable Mislav had ever been since coming to the school, thanks to his friend.

Mislav had felt honored when the older boy had talked to him in the dining hall last year, a simple discussion regarding the homework in a potions class that Drago had missed. Since that day, Drago would occasionally smile at him as they passed each other. Drago was one of the most popular boys in the school and was rarely alone in the hallways, so they remained nodding acquaintances. Mislav rarely summoned the courage to speak to his friend in front of other people.

"Professor," Mislav said, "I need your help with something."

"Yes, my boy, I am happy to help," Turgenev said.

"It's about..." Mislav began, but then stopped as he felt himself blush. "It's about someone I like very much, and I think they like me."

Turgenev smiled and said, "A poem, my lad, that is what this situation calls for. A poem from the heart, and if it is good enough, why, it will melt the heart of your young lady."

"I have never written a poem," Mislav said.

Smiling, the Professor said, "If you cannot put your feelings into words, it is not uncommon for young men such as yourself to borrow a poem. That is why they are printed into books and remain popular for centuries. Love is the true domain of the poet."

"Do you have a recommendation, sir?"

"Indeed I do," Professor Turgenev said, and then he blushed, a faint gray coloration crossing the ghost's face.

 **###**

Mislav had arranged to meet Drago in an empty classroom after dinner. He paced back and forth behind the teacher's desk, fingering the wand in his pocket, and didn't notice the handle on the door turning. As the door unexpectedly opened, Mislav panicked and pulled out his wand. Pointing it at the door he cried out, " _Obscuro_."

A blindfold appeared across Drago's eyes.

"What the hell!" Drago yelled.

Mislav said, "I'm so sorry, Drago," and with a flick of his wand the blindfold disappeared.

Drago checked his hair with his fingers, making sure the blindfold hadn't messed it up too much and complained, "What the hell were you playing at?"

"I'm sorry," Mislav said again, "It didn't sound like you and I guess I panicked."

Drago snorted. "Were you expecting someone else?"

He looked around the empty classroom and asked, "Why did you want to meet me up here, anyway? You made it sound urgent."

Mislav reached into his book bag and pulled out a roll of parchment tied with a red bow. He handed it to Drago.

"For you."

Drago looked at Mislav, then slid the ribbon off the parchment. He unrolled the paper and read the first line out loud.

"I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. I loved him, and sometimes he loved me too."

"It's a poem," Mislav said.

"I see that."

"A special poem," Mislav said. He looked at Drago and thought, why, oh why, oh why did I do this.

"Well, Mislav, I don't know what to say," Drago said, his eyes skimming the parchment, trying to get to the end of the poem quickly.

Mislav said, "It's nothing. Just a homework assignment. You know, Medieval Russian poetry."

Drago's brow furrowed as he turned his head slightly to the right.

"But that's Muggle Literature, Mislav," he said, the reproach in his tone clearly expressed.

Shrugging, Mislav said, "Well, Professor Turgenev lived in that age, and he gives extra credit to students who find poetry from that time period, that's all."

"I don't care if he is a ghost or not; he has no business trying to teach Muggle Literature here. Durmstrang has a proud history of its own."

Mislav walked over to the window, looking out at the desolate landscape. He felt the arctic chill seep into his soul, and cradle his heart.

Taking on his usual tone when lecturing a younger student, Drago said, "My father says that Durmstrang needs to have strong, intelligent teachers, not some ghost who longs for the glory days of Muggle history. If I were you, I wouldn't listen to anything that ghost has to say. The Muggles in this country are weak fools who allowed themselves to be crushed under the boot heels of other Muggle countries. Not something that we intend to emulate, Mislav."

Mislav continued to look out the window. The silence stretched on and on, a band tightening around Mislav's heart. Then he heard Drago cross the room and stand behind him. Drago waited a few more agonizing moments, then put his arms around Mislav.

Drago kissed Mislav's neck and whispered into his ear, "You are so Russian."


End file.
